


Key to Friendship

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teachers, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles catches Scott's eye as he uses the teachers' lounge as his IT office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Key to Friendship

The IT guy is rolling his eyes and muttering about Casper being an asshole again. Scott doesn’t know who Casper is, but he sure pisses IT off. Scott’s heard so many complaints about deployment and logistics and management-my-ass. He can almost recite him word for word, can definitely mimic the cadence and inflection of his voice. He’s only been at the school for three weeks.

Scott doesn’t know IT’s actual name - he calls him IT for both the fact he works with the school iPads and Macs and because he always wears interesting T-Shirts. The other names he’s come up with for him are Freckles McGee, Dotty-Potty-Mouth and Pretty in Plaid.

Scott’s a biology teacher. It doesn’t require too much creativity. And he usually has no energy for it during the few times he has break.

IT often haunts the teachers’ lounge. He’s pretty much the only member of school staff who does with any regularity. And he does that because there’s no devoted office for him, except the server room, which, according to IT in a conversation Scott overheard him having with Isaac is, “hot as balls and twice as pungent”. Scott sees IT as he’s walking through, trying to get to the coffee, needing to pee, searching for someone to help him with the damn photocopier again. That photocopier is possessed, Scott’s positive. And, well, IT is hard to miss. He’s always talking to thin air, or typing furiously, or flailing his arms around.

Scott wouldn’t say he’s obsessed.

Curious. Contemplative. Scott’s living in a new town, with a new job, and he’s honestly kind of lonely most of the time. He likes watching IT, likes hearing his voice.

Maybe one day they can actually talk.

*

Scott learns IT’s real name from one of his students. He’s failing to mirror his iPad to the interactive panel because Apple TV is a piece of sh– when Liam asks why he doesn’t just call Stiles. Scott stares blankly at him so Liam stands and points to a number written on a piece of paper tacked to the wall.

Scott can feel the sweat gathering on his hands as he dials the number.

“Stiles, IT Helpdesk. What is the nature of your call. Is it an emergency or are you wasting my time?” IT – no, Stiles’ voice says, snappish.

“Hey, er, Stiles? This is Scott McCall in room 103. I’m having trouble mirroring to the interactive panel and I was wondering if–”

“I’ll be there in two minutes,” Stiles interrupts. “That entire section of the school’s been buggy since those panels were installed.”

Stiles skids into the room less than 120 seconds later, a pink flush in the hollows of his cheeks and his eyes darting wildly at Scott and then the students. He looks taken aback at there being other people in the room.

“You didn’t test this during your free?”

“What free? I get two non-instructional periods a week,” Scott replies, not wanting to be combative, but also not liking Stiles’ implication that this is his fault.

Stiles rubs his hand against his neck, looks chastened. Maybe Scott used his teacher voice. He tries really hard not to do that with his peers. Hell, sometimes he hates using it with his students. “Sorry. It’s just. This might take longer than you’d want it to.”

“Okay, that’s not a problem,” Scott says, ensuring his tone is warm. He turns back to his students. “Looks like we’re going back to basics, guys. Turn your chairs around. I’ve got chalk here somewhere.”

Scott manages to successfully block Stiles out as he teaches, getting absorbed in discussing genetic anomalies. Before he knows it, the day is through, and his students are surging out the door at his dismissal. Final period can be a blessing.

He glances up to see Stiles fiddling with a screwdriver, his mouth holding the screws. Scott’s gaze keeps sliding to the pink of his lips against the gray, harsh metal. The curve of them. He’s been thinking about those lips a lot, lately.

“So it was a hardware problem, not a software one?” Scott asks, because he has to open up the lines of communication somehow, and he always does well with direct questions, so he figures Stiles might too.

“Different problem,” Stiles says with a shrug after he tips out the screws. “I might have been hiding out here because Argent wants me to show him my updated school website for the ninth time. It kinda looks like you might’ve forgotten to check the source for the display?”

With a single click of a button, Scott’s iPad shows up full screen on the panel.

“You must think I’m pathetic,” Scott groans.

“Nah, the teacher before you who changed the display source is the idiot,” Stiles demurs, eyes softening. He rests against the desk. “How are you finding Beacon Hills High?”

Scott doesn’t know how honest he should be. He’s seen Stiles be Gerard Argent’s shadow, though previous words suggest this may not always be something Stiles necessarily wants.

“I feel very lucky to be working in a school that has access to so many resources,” he says, choosing the most palatable truth. “In my last school, digital technology was science fiction.”

The teachers were kind and approachable, though. It made a difference. His last Principal seemed to care about his opinion.

“Yeah, we have resources out the wazoo,” Stiles says, nodding. “Of course, now all the teachers need to learn how to use it. Which is not a slight against you. You, at least, knew you had to turn the panel on.”

Scott’s going to respond, but then Stiles’ cellphone rings and he says a harried, “Sorry, gotta take this, see you around,” as he walks out of the room.

*

Scott starts to see Stiles around even more frequently after their first conversation. Stiles even begins to acknowledge him with a dip of his head or a little wave. When they stop by the coffee pot together they have a short chat about their day. Scott doesn’t understand half of what Stiles is talking about in regards to the physics of wi-fi or issues with networking, or ioS updates of doom, but he likes hearing him speak.

Before long, he thinks they’ve made the awkward jump from distant colleagues to friendly acquaintances. He wonders what it’d take for them to become friends.

They’re nearly there, he thinks. Stiles will seek him out on occasion, wait in the hallway after class. He appears to have Scott’s schedule memorized. Or he’s very lucky. Scott will email Stiles links to funny t-shirts he thinks he’d like. The first time Stiles wears one, his heart grows three sizes too big for his chest.

He knows a lot of general things about Stiles – has heard the same story twice or three times, loves it every single time – will almost always correctly predict how Stiles will respond to something he says. If they’re standing with other members of Beacon Hills High staff, they almost always end up talking exclusively to each other, eye-contact and shared jokes and camaraderie.

But they don’t interact outside of work.

Scott doesn’t know how to ask for that, how to suggest it. He doesn’t know how adults attain friends. He watches his students form new alliances and unwavering bonds all the time and he has no idea how.

He’s thinking about it when he slides his motorbike jacket on for the evening, is fiddling with his helmet, unlocking it, but it always sticks. It’s a crappy ending to an equally crappy day. He’d die for someone to joke around with, to help distract him.

“Heeeeey, Scott,” Stiles says, as if he can read his thoughts. He kicks his foot against the dirt, leans against a battered-looking Jeep. “Going home earlier than usual.”

“I didn’t have the best day,” Scott confesses.

“Wanna tell me about it over a drink?”

“I don’t drink,” Scott says, a second before he can kick himself. He tries to rectify it. “But I’ll watch you.”

Because that’s not creepy at all.

“Aren’t you the squarest little rectangle,” Stiles teases, amusement dancing in the glint of his eyes. “Milkshakes?”

“That sounds good,” Scott says, thankful for the save.

He follows Stiles to the closest diner, worried about the death rattle of the Jeep’s engine. His bike’s seen better days as well, but at least it doesn’t sound like it’s trying to rocket off into outer space. The Jeep makes it to the diner okay, though, and it must also journey into work. Scott knows Stiles doesn’t live close to the school. They once had an hour long chat after school about commuting.

“So what’s wrong?” Stiles asks when they’re seated in a booth.

Stiles ordered a peanut butter milkshake. Scott went for chocolate. He has half a notion of asking if Stiles would like to share so they could end up with something resembling a Reese’s peanut butter cup. That would be presumptuous. He’s pretty sure that would be crossing some kind of line.

“Nothing specific,” Scott hedges. “I guess – do you ever feel like you’re paddling fast and getting nowhere?”

“All the time. There’s a reason you’re my favorite person at BHH.”

Scott’s heart beats faster at Stiles’ pronouncement, even though he knew it had to be true. Stiles searches for him, after all. Stiles doesn’t start rushing in the opposite direction when Scott says hi to him, although Scott’s witnessed him do that to both Erica and Derek.

“I don’t bug you with technical questions whenever I see you around campus,” Scott offers.

“No, you do not. And also, you make an effort to learn how to use the technology you’ve been given. I don’t have to show you how to open an email attachment or take a picture more than once. Our jobs are full of tedious challenges – these simplistic things that should be easy, but often aren’t, because they involve other people.”

Scott’s never heard it framed in those words before, but the truth of it strikes him. He watches Stiles take a sip of milkshake through his straw, a little preoccupied with the hollowing of his cheeks, the glistening of his lips. It takes him a moment or two to remember he’s supposed to be speaking.

“What should I do? Paddle harder?” Scott asks, aware he’s sounding whiny, but needing to, and trusting that Stiles will accept it. “Let the current drag me to an inevitable crash against the banks?”

“I hear it’s easier when you try not to do it all alone.”

“I don’t think I know what to say. Please help me, I’m small and confused?”

Stiles smiles at him, resting his chin in his hand. “How about, ‘hey Stiles, I’m feeling down, wanna cheer me up?’”

“Hey, Stiles, I’m feeling down, wanna cheer me up?” Scott echoes, gazing at Stiles as if seeing him for the first time.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Stiles replies. He offers Scott some of his milkshake, Scott offers some in return, and the rest of the afternoon is spent eating and chatting.

*

So now Scott has a friend, a good friend, someone who actively cares for his wellbeing, who he cares for more than he thought possible, and he feels terrible, because he wants Stiles to be something else too.

He loves spending time with Stiles, but he feels like it’s never long enough, like they never get as close as he needs. And they’re fairly tactile, truthfully. They nudge and backslap and mock-attack. It seems wrong that after Stiles leaves Scott’s apartment, Scott finds himself wondering what would have happened if he’d leaned in when he wanted to and claimed a kiss.

The question consumes his thoughts way too often. What if?

Stiles will be telling him about the arguments he’s been having with people higher up in the education sector in their county, in the several thousand-word proposals he’s had to draft, and the short-sightedness of politicians who think iPads are another form of shush and color, and Scott will be listening, but will also be thinking about how hot Stiles looks when he’s enraged. Stiles will be complaining about how he’s in demand all over the state for his handheld device management techniques, all dramatic flails and intense snark, and Scott will be wondering what it would take to make Stiles relax. Stiles will be listening intently as Scott lets loose with some of his grievances about his most difficult students, and Scott will imagine the conversation happening in a very different setting, with sheets and a comforter, and a lot fewer clothes.

“Aren’t you glad I demanded you become my friend?” Stiles says one day, after he’s stolen food off Scott’s plate and drunk the last of his coffee. Scott loves it when he does these kinds of things, this show of familiarity and impertinence that signals how Stiles thinks of him.

“Is that how it happened?” Scott asks mildly.

“I got kinda sick of staring at you from afar,” Stiles confirms with a vigorous nod.

“You never stared at me.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t. I used to stare at you, and not once were you looking in my direction.”

Stiles’ expression shifts from teasing to curious, from open to guarded. “I’d use my iPad as a shield,” he says. “You used to look at me too?”

Scott gives a soft snort. “Like you didn’t notice my gaze tracking your every move.”

“I didn’t. Why’d you stare?”

“Why did you?”

Scott isn’t a hundred percent secure in his friendship with Stiles, not to the point where this feels completely safe, but he’s gotten to know Stiles, gotten good at reading him. Stiles is the same kind of nervous as when he talks to Lydia or Malia, to the point of near vibration. He’s the same kind of terrified Scott is. It gives Scott hope.

“You were new,” Stiles says after a second or two of silence, his eyes trained on the table between them.

Scott’s disappointed, hesitant. He thought it would be deeper than that. A confession.

“I’d stare at you because I wanted to know you,” he tells Stiles, deciding he’d feel worse if he didn’t. “Because you’re beautiful.”

Stiles looks up at him then, eyes wide and shocked. “You really thought that?”

“Think it,” Scott corrects. He’s a leap headfirst kind of guy when everything’s been weighed and counted, and Stiles doesn’t look disturbed at all – just surprised. “I don’t know who I’d be if you hadn’t demanded we become friends. You make my life infinitely better.”

Stiles is blushing deeply, his fingers are tapping a rhythm against the tabletop, he looks like he’s coiled full of energy, about to explode.

“That’s how I feel about you,” he says, more breath than voice, his gaze unwavering now.

Scott sucks in a deep breath, stands up and goes close to Stiles’ side. He leans down, bracing himself with one hand on the back of Stiles’ chair. He tilts Stiles’ head up with his free hand, looking at those lips again, so close to getting to know the feel of them. Stiles is steady, unflinching as Scott crowds close and kisses him.

He is every bit as soft and perfect as Scott assumed, every bit as teasing and intent. He winds a hand into the hair at the back of Scott’s head and pushes him down, deeper, as he opens up the kiss. It’s sweet, and focused, and feels full of words unspoken. And Scott wants this forever.


End file.
